


people we'd be together

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Merlin Holidays, Post-Magic Reveal, References to Depression, a bit of smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-29 07:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk





	people we'd be together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/gifts).



> Happy Merlin Holidays, dear Daroh! Your sign-up was so sweet and encouraging that I count myself incredibly lucky to have been able to write for you. I hope you're having the loveliest of seasons. ♥
> 
> Many thanks and much love to the organisers of this awesome challenge for all their support and hard work, and happy hols to everyone at the Merlin community. <3

The familiar ‘ding’ from his phone surprises Merlin at 6.30 in the morning. He only knows one person who checks their email at arse o’clock, and yep, sure enough, his phone screen tells him he has an email from arthur@pendragon.com.

_Merlin,_

_I hope you’re well._

_Look, I know it’s only been two weeks, and I honestly have no fucking clue how long you’re supposed to wait after a break-up to contact your ex, but anyway. I hope you remember Morg’s Christmas party this Saturday. Since it was your stellar idea to keep the break-up a secret for now, I’m afraid it means we’ll have to show up together._

_Arthur_

Merlin blinks at the screen, and then tosses the phone on to the sofa on his way to the kitchenette to make coffee. It’s way, way too early in the morning to deal with Arthur’s BS.

 

—

 

‘You haven’t replied to my email.’ Arthur’s using his pissed-off voice, which only means it’s a really good thing that Merlin has his back to him.

Merlin doesn’t bother turning around. ‘I’m not going. Tell them I’m down with something.’

‘Look at me when I’m talking to you,’ Arthur says, stentorian.

Pent-up frustration rising to the surface, Merlin swivels his chair around and opens his mouth furiously, but one look at Arthur stops him short.

Arthur looks… horrible, to put it generously. His silky and usually well-styled blond hair is in disarray, as though he’s run his fingers distractedly through it multiple times that morning. There are bags under his eyes and an extra-large black coffee (which Merlin knows is industrial-strength) in his hand. His dark suit only accentuates how pale he looks.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ he snaps.

‘It’s… yeah. I mean, no. I mean—you look like you haven’t been sleeping.’

‘I didn’t ask for your opinion on how I look. You’re coming to the party.’

‘As your date? I don't think so.’

‘It was your bloody idea to—’

‘To not ruin everyone’s holidays by telling them we’ve broken up, yeah. I didn’t sign up for this.’

‘You didn’t sign up for much of anything, except being a liar and a—’

‘Really?’ Merlin says in a furious whisper. ‘We’re doing this here, really?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Arthur replies, his low, incensed tone matching Merlin’s. ‘Not when you refuse to respond to civilised means of communication.’

‘Go fuck yourself, Pendragon.’ Merlin kicks his chair away from his desk and goes to fetch himself a very large, very sweet mug of cardamom tea, ignoring Arthur’s presence entirely. It’s an impressive feat, considering Arthur’s presence is extremely difficult to ignore even for people who haven’t spent years being in love with him.

 

—

 

Because the day can only get better after _that_ confrontation, Merlin finds himself summoned to Uther Pendragon’s office shortly before noon.

‘Ah, Merlin,’ Uther says, all faux-graciousness as usual, waving Merlin to a seat. ‘I trust you’re well.’

‘Never better.’ Merlin smiles as brightly as it’s possible to when one has a huge black cloud hanging over one’s head. (Okay, so the cloud is metaphorical. It still counts.)

‘Excellent, excellent. I just received your storyboard for the new advertising campaign.’ (Uther doesn’t shorten the word to ‘ad’ like a reasonable human being.) ‘Good work.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There’s another reason I asked you here.’ 

_What a shocker_ , Merlin thinks, polite smile affixed to his face. His cheeks are starting to hurt.

‘Morgana tells me Arthur hasn’t been home in a few days. And neither have you. I was under the impression you were sharing accommodations.’

Smile irretrievably lost, Merlin stares at him. How very, very like Uther to make it seem as though Merlin and Arthur are—had been—merely flatmates rather than partners.

‘Not any more,’ he says shortly, quite forgetting that no one’s supposed to know.

‘What Merlin means,’ Arthur says smoothly from somewhere behind Merlin’s back, ‘is that we’re having some work done.’ His hand comes to rest lightly on Merlin’s shoulder. ‘Remodelling the kitchen,’ he adds. ‘Had to get out of there for a bit, you see. Too noisy. Wasn’t it, darling?’ His hand squeezes Merlin’s shoulder. Hard.

‘Uh, yeah. The kitchen. Redecoration,’ Merlin says through his teeth, fighting the urge to pull away from Arthur’s hand.

‘Excellent,’ Uther says. ‘See you both at the party.’

 

—

 

‘What the _fuck_ ,’ Merlin hisses as Arthur takes his elbow, marches him down the hall from Uther’s office, and smoothly manhandles him into a broom closet. ‘Listen to me, you arrogant prick—’

‘No, you listen,’ Arthur cuts in. ‘You might be a right pain in the arse, but you were right about not letting this—’ he gestures at the empty space between them ‘—thing, whatever it is, ruin the holidays for everyone. So why are you insisting on—’ He cuts himself off with a sharp breath.

Merlin knows why. He can’t help himself. His eyes are burning gold, and all the unsecured items in the closet—brooms, mops, buckets, washcloths—are floating unsupported, gearing up to start smashing themselves against the walls.

‘Merlin,’ Arthur says. He sounds afraid.

‘Scared?’ Merlin taunts. ‘Scared that your daddy’s going to find out about my—what was it you called it? Unnaturalness?’

‘Shut up,’ Arthur says. His face is like stone, perfectly expressionless now. ‘Stop this.’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘Yes, you can.’ Surprisingly gentle fingers encircle Merlin’s wrists, Arthur’s thumbs rubbing against his pulse points. ‘Merlin,’ he says, soft, not letting go.

Merlin closes his eyes, sensing the objects around him floating gently back down to the floor. ‘All right,’ he says, weary. ‘I’ll go.’ Opening his eyes, he tugs his hands away from Arthur’s. ‘Don’t touch me again.’ He leaves without meeting Arthur’s eyes.

 

—

 

‘Stupid fucking insufferable _prat_.’ Merlin throws a cushion across the room.

‘Look at the bright side. At least you look amazingly good tonight.’ Freya’s always been the sensible one in their friendship. Considering that Merlin showed up at her doorstep at 3 a.m. on the night he and Arthur broke up, she’s also the only one in their circle of friends who knows about it.

‘Thanks, I guess.’ Merlin goes to retrieve the cushion from the floor and tosses it back onto the sofa. ‘Would it kill him to be a little considerate, though?’

‘I could say the same thing to you,’ Freya says, blunt as usual.

‘ _I’m_ inconsiderate? How?’ Merlin grabs a doughnut from the box on the coffee table and bites savagely into it. ‘Fuck, I’m starving.’ He glares at Freya. ‘Do continue.’

‘You aren’t the only one who’s suffering,’ she points out, helping herself to a chocolate-coated doughnut. ‘He’s going through a break-up too, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘A break-up that _he_ initiated.’

‘Wouldn’t you be in a state of shock if someone you’d been close to for ten years suddenly showed you a part of themselves you’d never known about?’

‘He isn’t in shock, Frey. He’s—fuck, I don’t even know how to describe it. He’s—he hates magic. He’s afraid of it… of—of me.’ 

‘Hmm. Didn’t you say he calmed you down earlier? When you almost lost control?’

‘So?’

‘So, if Arthur were afraid of magic, or of you, he wouldn’t have held your hands.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ Merlin mutters. ‘We weren’t—holding hands. Not in the way you make it sound.’

‘I’m just suggesting—’

She breaks off when the doorbell rings.

‘You expecting someone?’ Merlin asks, getting up.

‘Nope.’

It’s Arthur. Of course it is.

The two of them merely stare at each other for a long moment. Merlin sees Arthur’s gaze take in his outfit: dark jeans and a black turtleneck that fits him like a second skin. Arthur isn’t looking too bad himself, in a white dress shirt, black trousers and matching coat, the severity of the look softened by a wine-red tie. 

‘What’re you doing here?’ Merlin asks, finding his voice.

‘I would’ve thought that would be obvious. Picking you up.’

‘I thought we were meeting there.’ Merlin frowns at the wine bottle in Arthur’s hands. ‘Who’s that for?’

Infuriatingly, Arthur ignores the question and pushes past him into the flat. ‘Freya, hello. It’s good to see you again.’ He hands her the wine. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t actually get you a proper gift, but I thought you might like this. If I remember correctly, you’re partial to red.’

‘You remember correctly,’ Freya says, smiling. ‘Thank you, Arthur. You’re very thoughtful.’ 

She picks up Merlin’s jacket and holds it out, waggling it until Merlin grudgingly takes it from her hand. ‘Have fun, you two.’ 

 

—

 

‘Wait. How did you even know where I was?’ Merlin follows Arthur down the stairs. It’s only three flights, and besides, Arthur clearly hasn’t taken the lift because he doesn’t want to be caught in a cramped space with Merlin again, given the incident in the broom closet. It suits Merlin just fine.

‘Surely it’s obvious where you’d go after storming out in the middle of the night.’ Arthur remote-unlocks his car, not looking at Merlin.

‘I have other friends. Unless, wait—did you have me followed?’

‘Just get in the car, Merlin.’

‘Did you?’ Merlin persists, getting into the passenger seat.

‘Seat belt, Merlin.’

‘Fine, whatever.’

‘Eloquent as ever, I see.’

‘Oh, just shut up and drive.’

 

—

 

One highly uncomfortable and mostly silent drive later, they’re pulling up at the posh building where, until recently, they’d shared a flat. Morgana and Gwen live in the same complex. 

It’s weirder than Merlin had assumed it would be. He’d expected déjà vu, but not the acute sense of loss he feels when Arthur pulls his car into his assigned parking space. Usually they’d be talking away when they pulled in, laughing with each other as they got out of the car and pulled out grocery bags from the back seat.

Tonight, the silence between them feels like a thing with claws.

In the lift, he automatically presses 3, sense memory still unaccustomed to going anywhere but their place. Arthur leans across him to press 4, the floor Morgana and Gwen are on.

‘Sorry,’ Merlin mutters.

‘No harm done,’ Arthur says, strained.

It worsens tenfold when the doors slide open on the third floor. Arthur jabs his finger at the button to make them close, but it still feels like everything’s moving in excruciatingly slow motion.

Merlin pushes his hands back through his hair, despairing.

‘It’s all right,’ Arthur says.

If he touches Merlin again, his magic will probably make the lift plummet through the shaft all the way to the basement. 

Thankfully, Arthur keeps his hands to himself, and they make it to the party in one piece.

 

—

 

It’s in full swing when they arrive. The living room has been cleared to make space for dancing, petite round tables lined against the walls with food and drinks, with an actual bar set up on the far end of the room. Gwaine, of course, is bartending.

Morgana greets them with pecks on their cheeks and Gwen with her usual warm hugs. 

‘Well, well,’ Arthur says with a smirk. ‘A devil and an angel. You should’ve told us this was a costume party.’ Morgana is in a shiny red sheath dress with a dramatic neckline, and Gwen in a shoulder-less cream-coloured floor-length gown that hugs her softly. 

‘Ever the jester, little brother,’ Morgana says, reaching to ruffle his hair, and he side-steps neatly.

‘Come, we’d better get you some alcohol before Gwaine drinks it all.’ Gwen links arms with both of them and steers them to the bar.

‘Hola, amigos! What’ll it be?’ Gwaine tosses his luxurious hair back from his face. ‘No Freya?’ he asks, looking around.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, mate,’ Merlin says with a grin, accepting a vodka and tonic. 

Gwaine clutches his chest. ‘Why must I always fall for the heartbreakers?’

‘She’s way out of your league,’ Gwen teases. 

‘And you’re way out of mine,’ Morgana says without missing a beat, coming up behind Gwen and kissing her neck. ‘Care to dance, my queen?’

‘Lead on, my lady.’ 

Merlin watches with a smile as they twirl away, laughing in each other’s arms.

‘Trouble in paradise?’ Gwaine murmurs, leaning in over the counter.

‘What?’

‘You and Arthur.’ Gwaine tilts his head in Arthur’s direction. He’s moved away to stand on his own at the huge glass windows overlooking the city, already halfway through his whiskey and soda.

Merlin takes a fortifying sip of his drink before replying. ‘Nothing like that. He’s just… stressed.’

‘If you say so.’ Gwaine doesn’t sound convinced, and Merlin knows it’s only a matter of time before he figures out what’s going on. Fortunately, his attention is diverted by the arrival of Uther and his date, Annis, who looks particularly stunning that evening in a deep emerald evening dress, and Merlin is able to slip away without further questions about his and Arthur’s non-existent relationship.

‘Thought we were supposed to be playing the happy couple,’ he murmurs, moving to Arthur’s side.

‘Yeah, I just—sorry, I need a smoke,’ Arthur mutters.

Merlin sighs quietly, following him out onto the sprawling private terrace. Arthur makes for a shadowed corner, out of hearing range from the other guests making use of the space. He’s been stress-smoking ever since Merlin has known him.

‘Sorry,’ Arthur says again, blowing smoke away from Merlin. ‘It’s harder than I thought it would be to keep up the charade.’

‘You’re telling me. Here, give us a drag.’ Merlin holds out his hand.

Arthur reluctantly hands his cigarette over. ‘These things are bad for you.’

‘But not for you?’ Merlin inhales deeply, savouring the sharp taste. He’s never been a smoker, but he’s accustomed to sharing the occasional smoke with Arthur, if only because the taste reminds Merlin of him.

Arthur gives him a noncommittal half-smile in lieu of a response. ‘You needn’t hang out here with me, you know. Go back in, have a good time.’

‘Not really in the mood to party,’ Merlin says, taking a sip of his vodka.

‘We don't have to stay long. Just long enough.’

‘We could always fake an emergency. Say the hors d’oeuvres didn’t agree with you.’

‘Oh, please. As if anyone’s going to believe _I’m_ the one with the delicate stomach.’

Merlin lets out a laugh, surprising a smile out of Arthur. For a moment, Merlin lets himself savour the illusion that all is well, and they’re making each other laugh as they always did.

‘Merlin!’ The moment is broken by Gilli, who materialises at Merlin’s side. ‘I thought I saw you come out here. Hello, Arthur.’

Arthur merely nods before proceeding to ignore Gilli and lighting another cigarette.

‘Could I steal you away for a minute?’ Gilli’s cheeks are a bit flushed, as they always seem to be in Merlin’s vicinity. His crush on Merlin is pretty much an open secret. ‘I was hoping to get the chance to talk to you about, uh…’ He lowers his voice, throwing a nervous glance at Arthur. ‘You know, our special project. Would you, erm, would you like to dance?’

Arthur stands up abruptly, stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Gilli actually takes a step back, letting out a startled squeak.

‘Sorry, kid.’ Arthur cups Merlin’s elbow with his hand. ‘No shop talk tonight. It’s a party, after all.’ Without sparing another glance for Gilli, he steers Merlin back into the living room, pulling Merlin into his arms.

As they start swaying lightly to the music, Merlin says, ‘What was that about?’

‘I should be asking you the same thing.’ Arthur smiles politely at someone over Merlin’s shoulder, but it definitely doesn’t reach his eyes.

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.’

‘Of that pipsqueak? Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. I believe I asked you a question. ‘Special project’? He doesn’t even work with you.’

‘He just needed my help on something.’

‘He’s a fucking gardener.’

‘Actually, he’s a magizoologist who happens to specialise in magical herbs and fungi.’

‘I knew it,’ Arthur says through gritted teeth.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. ‘You knew about magizoology?’

‘I knew it was something to do with… your lot.’

Merlin’s been expecting at least one derogatory remark or two, but Arthur’s tone cuts under his skin like a razor. He stops dancing abruptly, pulling away from Arthur. ‘I can’t do this. Not here. Not like this.’ 

 

—

 

‘Merlin.’ It’s Arthur who’s following him down the stairs this time. ‘Merlin, wait.’

‘Why?’ Reaching the stairwell, Merlin turns to Arthur. ‘So you can deride me some more? Huh? Make snide remarks about my magic? Belittle my _actual_ friends?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Like hell you didn’t.’ Eyes stinging, Merlin turns away and resumes escaping down the stairs.

‘Merlin, don’t. Don’t you walk away from me.’

Pausing, his back to Arthur, Merlin rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes and blinks. He’s standing right outside the door to their flat. Arthur’s flat.

Arthur reaches around him and unlocks the door.

‘Are you coming in?’ he asks, holding the door open wide.

‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t, or won’t?’

Merlin doesn’t fight the incredibly inappropriate urge to laugh. It’s a dry, hollow sound.

Pain flashes across Arthur’s face, and, for once, he doesn’t bother to hide it. Merlin can feel it worming its way through Arthur’s veins, bright flashes of agony under Arthur’s worn-thin skin, his eyes bright blue and glazed over with Merlin-induced hurt.

Suddenly needing more support than his legs can give him, Merlin turns around and slides his slightly drunken way down the wall, sitting down on the carpeted corridor.

He hears Arthur sigh, a quiet sound like a pin dropping in the silence. Arthur’s soft footfalls pad away into the flat, the door still open. He returns in a minute, holding two glasses.

‘Not as good as Gwaine’s.’ He sets a glass down beside Merlin’s hand. 

Merlin drinks. It’s vodka and tonic with a twist of lime, just the way he likes it. ‘It’s better.’

‘Flatterer,’ Arthur mutters.

Music floats down from the party above as they drink for a few minutes, no words passing between them. Anything Merlin can think of to say sounds pointless in his head. 

After a while, Arthur nudges Merlin’s shoulder with his own. ‘You really won’t come in?’

‘Told you, I can’t.’

Arthur’s brow furrows. ‘What does that even mean?’ 

‘I warded myself out.’

‘Warded—you cast some spell?’

‘Just to keep myself out. You don’t have to worry. It won’t harm you.’

‘I wasn’t implying that,’ Arthur says, impatient. ‘Can’t you just, you know, undo it or something?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Why not?’

Merlin sighs, his head hitting the wall with a soft thump. ‘The warding will only lift under… specific conditions.’

‘Merlin, you’re making even less sense than usual.’

Merlin rolls his head around to lift his eyebrows.

‘In case you’re wondering, yes, I did mean that as an insult.’

‘Great way to get a guy into your flat.’

‘Oh, I’ve been told I’m particularly attractive when I’m being sarcastic.’

‘Whoever said that is a fucking liar.’

Arthur gets to his feet. ‘Well, come on, fucking liar. What do I need to do to let you in?’

Merlin sips at his drink, letting his free hand rest lightly on Arthur’s calf. It’s a particularly nice calf. ‘What makes you think you have to do anything?’

‘Because you said you can’t break the warding yourself. Ergo, I must be the one to do it.’

‘Think you’re so clever,’ Merlin mutters. He raises his glass to his lips again, but it’s pathetically empty. ‘Oh, bugger.’

‘Come in and let me fix you another drink.’

‘I’ll get fried if I try to cross the threshold.’

‘Fried?’

‘Like getting struck by lightning. Only more like a barbecue. Crispy-fried sorcerer, served smoking hot.’ 

‘You’re not serious.’

Merlin looks up at him. ‘You really want to argue with me about magic?’

‘You’re seriously telling me that you cast a spell that can kill you? Even you aren’t that stupid.’

‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a real charmer?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.’

‘I used to know a lot of things about you, Arthur. Turns out most of them weren’t true.’

‘I am so not drunk enough for this conversation, Merlin. Tell me what I have to do so you can come in.’

‘There’s nothing you can do.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Merlin snorts. ‘That’s a Pink song. About breakups, even. Good choice.’

‘Merlin, please. I’m begging you.’

‘Don’t hate me,’ Merlin says simply, getting to his feet. He presses his empty glass into Arthur’s hand.

‘What?’ Arthur says, blank.

‘You know, anyone else would look ridiculous, standing outside a doorway holding two empty glasses. But you don’t.’ Merlin brings his hands up to Arthur’s face, framing it gently, thumbs gliding over the dark circles under Arthur’s eyes. ‘Why’d you—why’d you have to go and ruin everything, huh? Why couldn’t you just let things be?’

‘Merlin. Don’t cry, Merlin, please don’t cry.’

Arthur sounds close to tears himself. Merlin stops touching him. He moves his hands to his own face, rubbing uselessly at his eyes.

‘Damn it, Merlin.’ Arthur sets the glasses down on the floor and pulls Merlin roughly into his arms. ‘Come here.’

Merlin lets himself fall against Arthur’s body, forehead on Arthur’s shoulder, hands pressed against Arthur’s chest. Arthur slumps back against the wall, letting it take their weight.

Merlin’s hands are curled into loose fists against Arthur’s shirt, Arthur’s fingers petting his hair absently, until they tangle in the messy strands and tug Merlin’s head up. Arthur presses a tiny kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin shudders. ‘Don’t.’

‘You don’t want me to?’ Arthur’s voice is impossibly soft as he cradles Merlin’s head, holding it as though it were something precious.

‘You hurt me, Arthur. Hurt me something fierce.’

‘And what d’you think you did to me, huh? Ten years, Merlin. Ten years, and you never said a word.’

‘Say it,’ Merlin says, his voice a whisper, a wisp of nothing. ‘Call me a liar again. A fraud. A cheat.’

They’re cheek to cheek now, a parody of a dance, unable to look each other in the eyes. Laughter sounds from the party above, rising higher than the music.

‘Don’t,’ Arthur says, his breath in Merlin’s hair.

‘I hear it all the time,’ Merlin says, the words muffled against Arthur’s neck. ‘Everything you said. Everything I made you say. Like a song I can’t get out of my head, playing on a loop, over and over.’

‘Don’t,’ Arthur says again. ‘Or do. Be as unhappy as you need to. But be unhappy here. With me. We’ll make us better. You know we will.’ The words come out in a rush, as though Arthur’s afraid again, as though he never stopped.

Merlin unravels himself from Arthur’s arms, gentle, so as not to hurt. ‘Not yet.’ He brushes his lips over Arthur’s cheek, passes a hand over Arthur’s soft, dishevelled hair, fingertips lingering at the nape of Arthur’s neck before he finds the courage to let go.

He feels the space between them grow, yawning and yawning like a chasm, as he descends the stairs alone, the music and laughter growing fainter with every step until it’s gone.

 

—

 

‘So,’ Gwaine says, sliding into the seat opposite Merlin’s. ‘I hear you’re newly single.’

Merlin doesn’t look up from his caramel latte. ‘Are you hitting on me?’

‘Do I look like a man who’d do such a despicable thing?’

‘You do, as a matter of fact.’

‘You wound me. How’s Freya?’

‘Ask her yourself. She’s at the counter. But then you already knew that.’

‘I did,’ Gwaine says, smirking. ‘How’s my hair? Anything in my teeth?’ He picks up a spoon and makes a show of checking his reflection. 

Merlin smiles. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Freya sets their orders down on the table. ‘Hi, Gwaine.’

Gwaine smiles his thousand-watt smile. 

Tuning out the sound of their playful flirting—he’s happy for them, he really is, even if he can’t help but worry about how Gwaine will react when Freya tells him about her condition—Merlin opens his phone to the message Arthur had sent early that morning. One message after days of silence from both of them, and it’s not even a real message, at least not one that Merlin can easily decipher.

**Arthur:**

Merlin’s been staring at it for hours now. He gets some of it. They love Siken, he and Arthur. Siken Bot is one of their favourite Twitter pages.

Chewing on his lip, he pulls up the page on his phone and takes a screenshot.

**Merlin:**

He regrets sending it almost as soon as he’s tapped the Send button.

Arthur doesn’t reply. Merlin knows he deserves it.

 

—

 

It’s eleven hours and four glasses of vodka and orange juice later that he opens his messages again. Freya and Gwaine are still awake, keeping him company, sitting side by side on the sofa while Merlin sits on the floor, his back against the divan, _The Fellowship of the Ring_ (the extended edition, obviously) playing on the television.

Scrolling through the verses, he takes his time to pick the right one.

**Merlin:**

Arthur responds almost immediately.

**Arthur:**

Merlin stares. Unbelievable. There really is a Siken quote for everything. He starts typing as much, but then backtracks. The game they’re playing has filled him with something suspiciously like hope, and he doesn’t want to jinx it. He scrolls through Twitter again.

**Merlin:**

Arthur’s response is, again, pretty much instantaneous.

**Arthur:**

This time, Merlin pulls up one of his favourite gifs instead, congratulating himself on his timing; the scene’s just about to play on the screen.

**Merlin:**

He falls asleep curled on the floor, the shadow of a smile on his lips, and completely misses the scene (as well as Freya and Gwaine’s first kiss).

 

—

 

They don’t text again for a few days.

Tired of wearing out his phone screen looking at their exchanges, Merlin goes back to letting his mind torment him by replaying their breakup on a loop, and it becomes the technicolour landscape of every nightmare.

One night, fuelled by too much chardonnay and too many LotR rewatches, he pulls up their forlorn, abandoned thread.

**Merlin:**

Arthur’s response comes a few minutes later.

**Arthur:**

Merlin laughs out so loudly that Freya pokes her head into the room to check that he’s okay.

 

—

 

**Merlin:**

**Arthur:**

**Merlin:**

**Arthur:**

**Arthur:**

**Arthur:**

**Arthur:**

**Arthur:**

—

 

‘Merlin,’ Arthur says, stepping out of the flat—he hasn’t forgotten about the warding, and Merlin’s heart clenches with something ridiculously like happiness at the thought. 

‘Merlin,’ Arthur says again, arms wrapping tight around Merlin and holding, and Merlin really is trembling, as Siken predicted. ‘Fuck, you’re freezing.’

‘F-forgot my coat,’ Merlin says through chattering teeth. ‘Had to get here. Had to… you. See you.’

‘I have to get you inside,’ Arthur says, urgent, anxious, his hands rubbing briskly down Merlin’s arms, trying to get him warmer. ‘Tell me you can come in. Tell me what to do.’

‘N-nothing. Just don’t hate me.’

‘You said that before. Wait, is that it? If I hate you and you try to come in, you’ll die?’

‘S-something like that, yeah.’ Merlin pushes his cold nose against Arthur’s neck.

‘Idiot,’ Arthur says, squeezing him tight.

‘Wasn’t… wasn’t about you,’ Merlin says, shivering. ‘It was to stop myself from coming here as long as you hated me.’

‘Then you were never in any danger, because I’ve never hated you.’

‘You wanna put that to the test?’ Merlin looks doubtfully at the doorway, then back at Arthur. ‘Maybe, uh. I’ll start small. How about a finger?’

Arthur takes Merlin’s hand in his. He guides their joined hands into the space above the threshold.

‘Hey. I didn’t catch fire.’

‘I didn’t expect you to,’ Arthur says, rolling his eyes. ‘Come here.’ He tugs Merlin into his arms, kicking the door shut behind them.

 

—

 

‘Have you eaten?’ Arthur asks, pushing a mug of hot cocoa into Merlin’s cold-numbed hands. 

‘Not for about four weeks.’ Merlin takes a long, warming sip. 

Arthur draws the thick blanket more securely over Merlin’s shoulders. ‘Pizza sound good?’

‘Heavenly.’

Arthur smiles, curling an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and reaching for his phone with the other. Merlin toys with the cuff of Arthur’s sleeve while he orders, snuggling shamelessly into Arthur’s side.

Arthur ends the call and presses a kiss to Merlin’s temple, fingers sliding into his hair. Merlin turns his face up for a kiss.

‘Are you warm enough?’ Arthur says against his mouth, holding himself back.

‘I’m fine, Arthur. Just kiss me already.’

Arthur leans in again, but then pulls back. ‘Wait.’

‘Now what?’

‘You’re a sorcerer. What kind of a sorcerer almost freezes to death in the cold?’

Merlin shrugs. ‘I guess I’m… I dunno. Out of batteries, a bit.’

‘Out of _batteries_? What does that even mean?’

Merlin gazes into the fire for a moment. ‘I… it’s not a perfect metaphor, but when… when I’m depressed, I can’t bring myself to work the simplest spells. Sometimes,’ he adds quickly, seeing the expression on Arthur’s face. ‘I just… I guess I needed to recharge a bit.’

‘Can you show me?’ Arthur asks, quiet.

Merlin swallows. He’s never done magic in front of Arthur, never dared to reveal what’s at his core. ‘I’ll try.’

He lifts his hand toward the fire. At first, there’s only the familiar emptiness inside him. He hasn’t done any magic—not consciously—since the night they broke up. The fire crackles softly, beginning to throw out cautious sparks. Encouraged, Merlin slides his other hand into Arthur’s, almost without thinking about it.

Arthur squeezes his hand. The sparks from the fire grow stronger, melding into a liquid flame that twists and turns in the air like molten glass dancing to a glassblower’s tune, shaping itself into a dragon in suspended flight. Colours emerge like splintered light reflected through glass, a rainbow of brilliantly-coloured scales forming on the dragon’s body. It spins once, is suspended above the flames for a moment, and then melts as quickly as it was born, returning to flame.

Merlin’s hand drops into his lap. ‘How’s that for a trick?’ he asks, going for breezy and missing by miles.

Arthur turns to him, takes Merlin’s face in his hands, and kisses him fiercely.

‘Arthur,’ Merlin says into his mouth, struggling to get the words out between kisses. ‘You’re—Arthur, you’re shaking. Don’t—don’t be afraid. Please—please don’t—’

‘Not afraid of you, Merlin. I was never afraid of you,’ Arthur says, pulling back a bit, his arms still surrounding Merlin like a protective fence. ‘I was only afraid for you. If anyone—if anyone ever found out—’

‘They will,’ Merlin says simply. ‘One day, everyone will know.’ His fingertips caress the lines of Arthur’s face, relearning him hungrily. ‘And everyone will be free, everyone will have the same rights as everyone else. You’ll see.’

‘So much to learn from you,’ Arthur whispers against Merlin’s neck, his warm, warm hands sliding up under Merlin’s sweater. ‘So much you need to teach me.’

Merlin arches his back, helping Arthur to pull his sweater off. Arthur leans back against the sofa and Merlin goes with him, straddling his thighs as Arthur’s hands slide lower, moving in broad, restless circles against Merlin’s back. Merlin leans over him, his torso parallel to Arthur’s, resting his forearms on Arthur’s chest and framing his face, holding him still for a kiss that deepens rapidly.

There are words in Merlin’s head, too many of them, jostling for space, jumbled, incoherent. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters has always been hidden beneath words, beyond language: Arthur’s fingers sliding into Merlin’s mouth, getting them wet for what’s coming next; Arthur’s quiet, desperate, wordless pleading; Arthur’s body beneath Merlin’s, pressing up for more, greedy, gorgeous, and all Merlin’s, every drop of sweat and every strand of hair, all Merlin’s; the sound of their breaths, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling, again and again, over and over; promises they’re breathing into each other’s mouths like oxygen, not allowing their lips to part long enough to form words, but it doesn’t matter; Merlin’s body clenching around Arthur’s slicked-up fingers, spearing into him relentlessly; the creaking of the sofa’s springs as they thrust and thrust and thrust, exhausting each other, exhausting themselves, and it’s only ever this that mattered.

 

—

 

Later, when he’s half-asleep on Arthur’s chest, Merlin remembers something.

‘Hey,’ he mumbles into Arthur’s skin. ‘Your father said you weren’t staying at home. You know, earlier. Before the party.’

‘Mm,’ Arthur replies, drowsy and soft.

‘Where were you?’

‘Hotel.’

Merlin lifts his head. ‘Why?’

Arthur reaches up to tangle his fingers in Merlin’s unruly hair. ‘You really need to ask?’

‘I guess not.’ Merlin bends his head to kiss Arthur, his lips pressing an apology against Arthur’s. Arthur kisses back, sweet and gentle and tasting of Merlin’s body. 

‘And did you have me followed?’ Merlin asks, grinning, tracing the shape of Arthur’s smile with a fingertip.

‘Don’t be silly, Merlin,’ Arthur says around a yawn, gathering Merlin back into his arms, dragging him closer. ‘I wouldn’t ask anyone else to do my dirty work.’

‘You’re a complete and utter bastard,’ Merlin says, snuggling back down. ‘A total clotpole.’

‘Mm. Do remind me to buy you a dictionary.’ Arthur presses a sleepy kiss to the top of Merlin’s head.

‘An absolute dollophead.’

‘Go to sleep, Merlin.’

 

Epilogue: Six Months Later

 

Merlin’s phone chimes as he enters the flat. The lights are off, and he fumbles a bit before pulling out his phone. It’s a message from Arthur. He can’t open it yet because Aithusa is all over him, tiny, excited yips filling the air, her small feather-brush tail wagging so hard it’s pretty much a blur.

‘All right, all right, I’ve got you. Arthur?’ he calls. ‘I’m home.’

The light clicks on.

‘Don’t turn around,’ Arthur says from behind him. ‘Not until you’ve checked your phone.’

Merlin does, Aithusa’s happy, wriggling body tucked under one arm. (He really needs to tell Arthur one of these days what she was in a former life.)

**Arthur:**

‘Arthur.’ Merlin turns around.

Arthur holds out his hand, uncurling his fingers. ‘It’s not the One Ring, but I’m hoping it’ll do.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to take what I can get,’ Merlin says, smiling so hard that his face hurts.

 

~end


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